


Case #12079 (or The one with Mr Singer-Songwriter Extraordinaire)

by SmilinStar



Series: Grey Matter Russian Roulette [2]
Category: iZombie (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 04:18:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5077504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmilinStar/pseuds/SmilinStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first few strums of the guitar resonate through the air, and cautiously he thinks, so far so good. She can play, at least. That's something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Case #12079 (or The one with Mr Singer-Songwriter Extraordinaire)

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact, I started writing this before I saw the promo for 2x04 and had no idea what the episode was about. Anyway, enjoy.

\-----

****

 

** Case #12079, LM **

**Cause of Death:** Blunt force trauma

 

 

* * *

 

 

“And this is supposed to help you catch the killer how?”

 

Liv rolls her eyes and huffs out her reply. It seems a lack of patience for stupid questions is just another trait she's inherited from today's vegetable and brain stir-fry lunch.

 

“Because, _Ravi_ ,” and she completely misses the amused twitch of his lips at her clear frustration as she walks in ahead of him, “Jealousy. It's the number one motive for murder.”

 

“Yeah, I'm pretty sure it isn't, but sure I'll play along.”

 

She stops suddenly and he barely stops himself from careening into her. She puts out a hand and rests it on his chest, well stomach, given his height and hers, “No. I've heard you playing, and I'm sorry to break it to you, but you are just not good enough for my band.”

 

Wow. Talk about blunt force.

 

“That's not-” he stutters, but she's not paying any attention, spinning around again and heading further into the small venue hosting this little contest. He finishes the sentence under his breath, “what I meant . . .”

 

It seems Luke Miller fancied himself a bit of a singer-songwriter, and talented or not, he wasn't exactly Mr. Popular. Not with that kind of looking-down-his-nose personality.

 

It's hard not to see why someone had taken his own guitar and hit him over the head with it.

 

Still, being a dick doesn't excuse murder.

 

“Liv!” he calls out through cupped hands. She's already twenty steps ahead of him, disappearing into the building crowd, “Liv!”

 

“What?” she shouts back, turning around with a scowl on her face.

 

“You're forgetting something!” he yells back.

 

She looks back at him confused, and he responds only by lifting the guitar case he's been lumped with carrying off his back and holding it up mid-air.

 

Her lips curve around to form an “Oh.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

She walks back towards him, and simply grabs it off him and turns away without so much as a thank you.

 

He shakes his head after her, reminds himself, it's not her. It's Luke. And he's a complete arse.

 

Liv disappears backstage and Ravi finds his spot in the crowd easy enough. Being 6'4” has many advantages, and a clear view over a sea of heads in front of him is definitely one of them.

 

It's another ten minutes before the lights finally dim and the crowd erupts into claps and cheers as the first act of the evening takes to the stage.

 

Unsurprisingly, it's a shaggy haired, lanky teenage boy with an acoustic guitar clutched in his hands. As he strums out the first chords of his song, Ravi finds himself wanting nothing more than to be back at home playing Uncharted 4, because this? This is torture.

 

Sadly, it doesn't get any better. It's one lovelorn teen after another, singing about pretty girls and broken hearts, all vying to be the next James Morrison, Blunt, Bay.

 

And it's depressing as hell.

 

He really wishes he could drown himself in alcohol so that it might make the music part way tolerable, but then he has a job to do.

 

He remembers Liv's words just as they'd left the morgue; “Keep your eyes open for anyone who looks like they want to strangle me with my microphone cord, or you know hang themselves with it because they know they can never be as amazing as me.”

 

To which he'd responded with a “sure thing” and a thumbs up, although the grimace on his face might have told a different story.

 

Looking around the bar, there isn't anyone in particular that stands out. But then, it's not as if they'd be standing around holding a placard that reads “I murdered Luke Miller”. And anyway, he's not the detective in this little zombie-vision-enhanced crime-busting team of theirs. No, that's Clive's job, who just so conveniently had discovered another lead at the eleventh hour, and had with real regret lamented the fact he couldn't be here tonight. “But hey,” he'd said, “Ravi would love to go with you and scope the competition for suspects, wouldn't you?”

 

The “Oh yeah” and accompanying shake of his head had apparently failed to register with Liv, and thus him being dragged along like a roadie.

 

It's in the middle of his search for a guitar wielding killer that the host for the evening announces the next act.

 

“And now we have a late entrant, a Miss Olivia Moore, performing an original song.”

 

The audience clap enthusiastically and Ravi finally perks up, head swinging back around to the stage.

 

She's got her guitar hanging in front of her, the microphone hovering around her forehead and she has to bring it back down to her height. There's a screech of feedback from the microphone as it drops, and the crowd winces along with him.

 

He can hear his own heart pounding in his ears, nervous for her. He almost can't watch, because what if she sucks? What if she completely bombs? And although Luke Miller might be conceited enough to think he's god's gift to the music industry with whatever comes out of his mouth, it's Liv Moore that'll face the humiliation if it goes tits up.

 

And so like a coward, he screws his eyes tight, and waits with bated breath.

 

The first few strums of the guitar resonate through the air, and cautiously he thinks, _so far so good._

 

She can play, at least.

 

That's something.

 

And then she opens her mouth, and _sings._

 

Eyes closed, singing the unfamiliar words to a song written by a talent that hadn't been given a chance to bloom.

 

And it's actually not bad. Not bad at all.

 

The lyrics are a bit too pointed and unsubtle, but they're not making him cringe in embarrassment.

 

And her voice. It isn't perfect, but she hits all the right notes and he can't help but grin.

 

The crowd are swaying along and he finds himself joining in, half wanting to shout out to the person standing next to him in a complete meltdown of pride, that that woman on stage is his friend. His best friend, and she's _bloody brilliant._

 

Not that he plans on telling her that.

 

Her two and half minutes under the spotlight comes to an end in a flash and as she holds the last note, she's met with applause and cheers. None louder than his own whoops and whistles. Somehow, her eyes find his in the crowd and the beam on her face matches his.

 

The smiles, however, only last until the competition's over.

 

She doesn't even place.

 

Not even third.

 

She's spitting mad with rage beside him as he walks her home at the end of the night, guitar case slung over his shoulder.

 

“I mean, come on!” she says, Miller out in full force, “I was a million times better than Gary 'Freckleface' Whatever-the-hell-his-last-name-is!”

 

He raises a brow, “Freckleface?”

 

She ignores him and carries on ranting, “He didn't even sing his own song! He sang a cover. _A cover!”_

“You know there is nothing wrong with singing a cover. I mean, Kelly Clarkson, she's done some pretty amazing covers-”

 

“Kelly Clarkson!” she scoffs in derision, “Of course, you're a Kelly Clarkson fan.”

 

“Hey! That woman can sing. And I happen not to be a music snob unlike _some people._ You know you're setting yourself up to miss out on so much potential brilliance." _  
_

She blows out a breath and her shoulders slump, “And no one stuck out to you as a possible suspect?”

 

He shakes his head, “No. Not one. Although they are all guilty of having _suspect_ taste in music.”

 

“Except, they all loved me.”

 

He cocks his head to the side, and twists his face with a “Well . . .”

 

“Shut up, admit it. You thought I was amazing.”

 

“I'll admit no such thing.”

 

She grins up at him, and it's automatic, the tug stretching the muscles in his cheeks.

 

And he thinks 'to hell with it'. Her ego's already inflated, one more compliment won't hurt.

 

And so he stops in the middle of the road, and Liv spins around to stop in front of him, eyebrows raised and expectant.

 

But then somewhere along the neuronal pathway from his brain to his mouth, 'were' becomes 'are' and so what he ends up saying is “You're amazing.”

 

The effect is instant, her eyes widen and his own face burns hot and red.

 

“I mean, you _were_ ,” he stammers to correct himself, “Yes. You _were_ amazing.”

 

The smile that spreads on her face then is a hundred percent Liv Moore.

 

Not a trace of Luke sparkles from her eyes.

 

It doesn't matter whose brains she's had for breakfast, lunch and dinner, she's still her.

 

And the “thank you” that leaves her lips as she takes the guitar off his shoulder only proves him right.

 

He thinks she's brushed his little slip up away, but Liv Moore is merciless and she reminds him of this a long silent minute later.

 

“Yes I _am_ ,” she says with a grin, nudging his side with her shoulder.

 

He sighs, and admits defeat.

 

“Yes you _are_.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
